Valley of the Sun
by Linwe-Amari
Summary: "John." Claire grabbed him by the crook of his arm. He looked down at her hand, then back up as he shook off her touch with a hardened expression on his face. But she had his attention. Albeit, he acted as if he would rather be wasting his time on something else, like spray painting the F-bomb on a blackboard.
1. The Mourning Sun

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Breakfast Club, nor do I wish to claim that I do. No money is being make, and no infringement is intended—just funsies.

A/N: Alrighty, I am definitely a hard-core Breakfast Club fan, but I don't know everything, and my vision of what the characters say and do is merely informed speculation. You may a have a different opinion than me, and that's okay. Also, this is not intended to be anything remotely like a final draft, and considering the fact that I proof-read it myself, it is bound to have some typos and stuff. If you see something that's really, really bad, (like incongruities with the time line—it's happened) let me know, but other than that, Hakuna Matata. I will get someone to read it later and I'll repost. I just wanted to get this out there to see what people think and to get some ideas, maybe. :)

Thanks!

Valley of the Sun

Chapter One: The Mourning Sun

The morning sun sliced through the part in the curtains covering the window that looked rather like they'd been used to wipe someone's—well, you know…they were some crappy-looking curtains. This was a rude awakening for the red-head, who only stumbled home and crashed into her bed about two hours before (of course, it felt like she'd only slept for two minutes). After a whole night of getting seriously hammered with Sonia at the Mosh, the idea of work or anything remotely close to movement in any way, shape, or form was not looking very promising. She groaned resentfully as she turned her head to look at the clock. 6:07 a.m. in the morning.

Ew.

Claire reluctantly sat up and rag-dolled her heavy legs over the edge of the bed.

_Ugh—work._

Not that being a cashier at the local auto shop was all that hard, but work was work, and no matter which was you looked at it, it sucked.

The owner, John, (proud owner of John's Auto Repair) was a good old guy in his sixties who paid her more than she really deserved—not that she was complaining.

She knew that she'd be trashed all day, especially after her two measly hours of sleep wore off. This meant that she wouldn't be physically or mentally able to give two shits about what John was going to teach her about repairing cars (which made Claire more money that pressing a button and counting change).

She liked Phoenix—a lot. It was freeing to be out from under her parents' synergic thumb. Claire felt bad about leaving her father without telling him where she was going and for not calling him in over two years.

Her mother, however, was a different story.

Before thoughts of her mother could ruin her day, Claire heaved herself off of the bed, sighing as she went, and headed for the kitchen. The redhead wrenched the phone up off of the hook tiredly, fumbling with it for a moment, catching it before it could hit the ground and clack loudly against the worn linoleum. Claire jammed the receiver in between her ear and shoulder as she dialed the number that she knew by heart now. It only rang once.

"Hello?" came a feminine voice over the line.

"Hey, Allison. It's me." There was a momentary silence.

"Where are you?" she finally asked. Any idiot could tell that she already knew the answer to the question she was asking, but it seemed like one of those things that you just ask about anyway, even though it doesn't really make sense.

Claire heaved a sigh. "You know I can't tell you that."

"Can't or won't?"

Claire rubbed her eyes. She just really couldn't deal with this at six in the morning. Another sigh. Neither spoke for a moment.

"I just called to check in, you know," Claire finally responded, dodging the question. "It's been three months."

"I know—longer than usual," Allison responded quietly.

"I know, I know—I'm sorry. I kept meaning to call, but…" Claire trailed off because she really didn't have an excuse. Allison, as per usual, did not reassure Claire that it was alright to not call for three months straight—because if the reclusive brunette didn't condone something, she was not going to go through the nicety of telling a person that everything was okay. Because it wasn't. Claire knew this, but sometimes she wished that Allison would cut her some slack.

Of course, the best way to avoid an uncomfortable topic of conversation is to change the subject.

"So, how's college going?"

Allison took a few seconds to answer, as was her custom unless she really had something to say.

"It's fine—can't complain. Andy's doing better in his classes with Brian's tutoring. And Brian's already choosing his classes for next semester and we're not even half-way done with this semester. He keeps talking about multivariable calculus."

Claire let out a particularly loud and un-lady-like snort and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, hoping to God she hadn't woken Sonia—her closest friend outside of the Club. She waited for a moment before speaking again, a smile gracing her face and a laugh in her voice.

"Shit," Claire giggled. "Calculus."

"_Multivariable_ calculus."

Another silence.

The two spent more of their time in silence with each other. Silence, for the two of them, said so much more than words ever could.

Claire could feel the promise in the air—it was like electricity traveled through the telephone wires and surrounded her, cracking in anticipation. There was something that Allison need to speak with her about.

"What is it, Allison?" Claire finally asked, dreading what was to come. And then Allison brought up a subject that she'd long learned never to mention to Claire.

"I heard from John last week."

Claire's heart—

skipped—

a beat.

And all of the air was sucked right out of the room. _Shit_.

"Did you?" She just barely managed to force herself to speak.

"He's in New York City with his band. They're getting pretty big, apparently. Touring the country, he said. Trying to accrue more fans."

"That's great," Claire croaked. She'd thought that John was in Maine (last she'd heard), but apparently he'd made his way down to New York.

Allison paused longer that she normally did before speaking. "He wanted to ask about you—I could tell."

"But he didn't."

"I told him we were all okay."

Claire's heart fell to the floor. She imagined it making this squishy sound and blood spurting out onto her shoes like a sprinkler, polka-dotting her bare feet with red. She imagined the delicate organ flattened out like a pancake on the smooth hardwood flooring… Ew.

"Oh." A beat. "You didn't tell him I left did you?"

"No."

Claire leaned herself against the refrigerator, her forehead touching the smooth surface, cooling her face. It felt like an hour of silence passed before either of them spoke again.

"What happened?" Allison whispered. Claire knew what she meant—between John Bender and herself. "I would have thought that he'd understand, Claire." But what the brunette didn't know was that Claire never had the chance to tell him the whole story.

"_God, you are such a fucking _fake whore_, Claire! You don't know anything besides your nail polish, your make up, and your _fucking father's _BMW! And you won't publically associate with anyone who sees past all of that bullshit and sees you for what you are! _You_ are a worthless, _spineless_ coward! And I can't stand the _fucking _sight of you!"_

His words resonated in her mind over and over again. An echo on loop. Every time she replayed that day in her mind it filled her with a dull anger, but more overwhelmingly with extreme hurt. Claire knew that she deserved at least half of what he said that day, but there were some pieces missing from his understanding.

And then, two years later, he calls Allison and acts all nonchalant like that?

_Bullshit, John Bender. Bull. Shit._

Yet, despite her anger, Claire knew that she should have expected this. This was a classic John Bender defense mechanism—avoidance. Often, he engaged in this tactic by lashing out at someone, that way he wouldn't have to reveal how he really felt.

Despite this fact, he was right—it wasn't just his defense mechanism spewing out anything that would hurt Claire. She wasworthless, she was spineless, she wasa coward. And she had been a fake. But she had _never_ faked her feelings for him. The fact that he couldn't see this cut her the deepest.

"I'm sorry, Allison, but…"

Allison made a weird noise of understanding over the receiver. Claire smiled faintly—she had grown accustomed to her odd friend's quirks, in fact, she liked them.

"So how's the job?" Allison questioned.

"Well," Claire replied, "Spudsie is teaching me about cars. You know… how to fix and take care of them. So I can help him work on them—I need to make more money than I do as a cashier. I mean, Sonia makes enough for the two of us, but I hate that I can't contribute half of the rent."

John Spud, endearingly known as Spudsie, was the owner of Spud's Auto Repair, where Claire worked six days a week.

"Remind me again why are you living in a shack if Sonia's studying to become a lawyer?"

Claire sighed, rolling her eyes good-naturedly as she moved to sit at the small kitchen table. "Sonia doesn't want to take anything for granted, Al, especially money."

"Obviously, the best solution is to live in a shack," Allison replied in a sarcastic monotone.

"I know," Claire propped her feet in the chair opposite her, "she's weird."

"I like her."

Claire chuckled.

There was a long pause.

"Why don't you go to school?" Allison offered. "You could get paid more than a mechanic."

Claire sighed. "I just can't. I don't have any of my records and to get them I'd have to go home…"

"Would that really be so bad?"

"Allison, I—I can't handle that. I'm not ready to come home just yet."

"It's okay," Allison finally said.

"Listen," Claire both lamented and rejoiced in having to finish the conversation. "I have to get ready for work. Thanks for talking to me so early in the morning—what is it seven o'clock in Shermer?" Allison only responded with an odd throaty sound, making Claire smile fondly. "I'm glad we're still friends," she told Allison suddenly. Claire didn't have to see the other girl to know that she was smiling.

"Make sure you call soon," Allison reminded her.

"Cross my heart," Claire promised as she physically did so, although Allison couldn't see it.

"Bye."

"Bye," Claire said.

Then she slowly hung the phone up and, once again, Shermer was two thousand miles away.

Claire continued staring at the phone for a moment before looking down at the clothes she'd been wearing for the past couple of days, then up at the clock on the kitchen wall above the stove. 6:44. She only had about a half-hour to get to work, which got Claire moving toward the bathroom to take a quick shower.

She and Sonia lived in pea-sized house on the northern edge of Phoenix. Sonia, the wisecracker that she was, often joked that they lived in a shoe—like the old nursery rhyme.

"_If you start having so many children that you don't know what to do, though, I'm kicking you out,"_ Sonia had teased her once.

Claire ran a hand through her self-cut hair (she actually didn't do too shabby of a job keeping it the way she liked to wear it—short) and sighed. She _had_ to take a shower today—she only showered every other day or so. No one at the shop ever noticed if she smelled or not—besides, she didn't see the point in making herself pristine for guys who played around in oil all day and smelled like a car engine. It wasn't like she worked at a law firm office.

The cherry-haired 18-year-old (soon to be 19 on the 24th of June, but that was a little less than 3 months away) opened the bathroom door. She tore off her slightly baggy white tee-shirt that had a logo on the front, advertising her father's Chicago boating company. Next, her red, flower-print skirt came off. It used to be ankle-length but it'd been way too long for the heat of the Valley of the Sun, so she'd long ago ripped off excess fabric up to her knees.

Claire jumped into the shower and spent exactly one minute and fifty-four seconds washing herself—a new record. When she got out, she dried herself, brushed her teeth and applied other essentials to her body. Deodorant—her other best friend. She wrapped her thin white towel around her body and bent down to grab up her clothes, hastily making her way to her small bedroom. The pair of underwear that she picked out of her top drawer had a few holes, but were still wearable. She also picked out the whitest pair of socks that she had—and their whiteness could be considered murky at best. She moved down to the next drawer and dug out a pair of old jeans that would be good for working on cars and a power blue tee-shirt.

When Claire finally finished dressing, she looked into the full-length mirror that was leaning against the wall across from her dresser. She still looked pretty much the same as she did two years ago, despite some maturing, but with her new clothing style, she somehow seemed like a much different person. She could probably go back to Shermer and not be recognized by her own parents. They wouldn't understand why she chose to live this way. And she did _choose_ to live this way.

Only the Breakfast Club would recognize her.

She was still thin and impossibly pale with bright red hair and rather large lips, freckles and all still present—darker, even, because of all Arizona sun she got. What was different? Less make-up and the fact that she traded in her "high-class" (or yuppie, according to Sonia) clothing for her current more grungy clothing, which was all she could afford with auto-repair shop cashier pay.

Sure, she had a bank account that she could access if she wanted, but her father would know if she did; he could figure out where she was withdrawing the money from since he was the custodian of the account. And she didn't want him to know where she was. She didn't want anyone from Shermer to know.

Claire glanced at the clock and realized that only ten minutes had passed. She had to wake Sonia up at 7 o'clock to get ready for work and she herself had to be at work by 7:15.

With this thought at the forefront of her mind, Claire frantically searched around for her worn out black Doc Martens that she'd picked up from a Goodwill store. They were actually more grayish looking now due to what Claire could only assume came from years of wear. Needless to say, she'd cleaned them out thoroughly before she'd worn them herself, but once she had, she refused to wear any other pair of shoes. They were really comfortable. Anything else she tried was simply not up to par. She loved them and soon they became the only pair of shoes that she owned.

When she and Sonia had returned home a few hours before, Claire had kicked them off somewhere, but she didn't remember where that 'somewhere' was exactly. Now she had less than five minutes to find them.

"Sonia," Claire said gently as she entered the slightly older girl's room. Her counterpart was in her junior year of college at Arizona State University. "It's nearly seven in the morning—wake up." She heard a sleepy groan in response.

"Damn," Sonia grumbled, "No need to yell." Claire laughed, knowing that, like herself, Sonia had one massive hangover.

"I didn't yell, Sonia. Now get up. You only have an hour to get ready. Move it."

"Ugh—what_ever_,mommy," she replied snarkily as she rolled over.

"Hey, have you seen my Docs recently?" she asked the dark-haired girl who had, by then, stuffed her face back into her pillow.

"Yeah," she heard a muffled response.

"Where?"

"On your feet last night."

"Sone…" Claire groaned.

"Weren't very specific, Carrot head." Sonia replied snarkily.

Claire grinned. Sonia's family was from Mexico and had, herself, been born in Mexico City. She was rather short (about five feet tall) with near-black hair and she still had a slight accent, but after living in America for eighteen of her twenty-one years, it was mostly gone. Claire did notice that whenever Sonia visited her family in Mexico, she would return with a heavy accent, but it always faded within a day or two.

"Thanks for your help," Claire teased.

"Welcome," she mumbled into her pillow. Claire rolled her eyes, knowing that Sonia wasn't going to get up without some encouragement. So the redhead grabbed the edge of her comrade's pillow, jerked it out from underneath her, and hit her over the head with it.

"_¡Ay, caray!"_ Sonia exclaimed, almost falling off of her bed from the shock. "What the _hell_?"

"Get up, Sone! You can't be late to work."

"I was getting there! Sheez, Standish!"

Claire left her thoroughly pissed house-mate and scoured the entire house (this didn't take too long) for her boots. She found one behind a chair in the living room and one just outside of the front door.

Really?

She slipped them on and quickly tightened the laces, double-knotting them at the top. Her socks stuck out of the top of the boots a bit, which she liked because otherwise she would get blisters. And dealing with blisters was not fun. Nope.

The cherry-haired girl stood in the doorway, half inside of the house, half outside.

"See you later," she said as she picked up her key and messenger bag from the small table next to the door. "Don't forget to lock up when you leave."

"Have I ever?"

"Nope. But what if today's the day you forget?"

As Claire closed the door she heard Sonia mutter something that sounded distinctly like "Not likely."

It took about ten minutes for Claire to walk to the auto shop and when she entered, she was immediately greeted by the overly eager fifteen-year-old, David. His head suddenly appeared from behind the 1978 Ford pickup truck that he was working on. He looked so excited that he just might piss himself.

"Hey, Claire!" he said cheerily. "How's your morning been so far?"

"Mostly good, actually," she answered honestly. Mornings weren't usually Claire's strong suit—she was not good at waking up, which made Sonia and herself a lovely pair—but talking to Allison, despite some uncomfortable topics, had been therapeutic.

"Great!" David, a sophomore in high school, was completely smitten with Claire and everyone could clearly see it. He, of course, had the idea stuck in his mind that he had a chance, and if Claire didn't always have a certain _other_ John on her mind (and if the kid had been a bit older), maybe he would have.

"Eh!" called Antonio, who was in his mid-thirties and one of the shop's top mechanics. He worked full-time, six days a week to pay for medical school. It seemed to Claire that she was being left in the dust. All of her friends were in college now and John was in New York making it big as a drummer in a band. She was the only one going nowhere, and she had no idea how to stop it. She wanted to travel the world, go to school, and eventually get a good job and settle down, but she couldn't see herself settling down with just anyone. The only person she would _consider_ wouldn't consider her back. Not anymore.

"Claire just got here, kid," Antonio went on. "Hold off on your drooling for a few minutes."

Claire rolled her eyes in amusement, watching as David blushed heavily and hid himself behind the truck again. She walked over to the counter and began to open everything up so that they'd be ready for business at 8:30 when the shop opened. As she turned on the cash register, John, her boss, finally appeared.

"Claire," he said her name from the doorway of the tool room beside the counter. "How are you this fine morning?"

Claire smiled at the balding, slightly rotund man in faded blue overalls and a white tee-shirt. His kind face matched his kind heart. Not that John Bender wasn't capable of being kind, but the demeanors of the two Johns were polar opposites. John, the auto repairman, greeted everyone who crossed his path with a smile. John Bender greeted everyone who crossed his path with the finger.

"I'm fine, other than the fact that I only got two hours of sleep last night," Claire replied.

John's words were laced with chuckles. "Would never have known the difference. You still look just lovely."

Now it was Claire's turn to blush.

"Thanks, John." _And no, I'm not lovely in my two-day-worn clothes. It's pathetic._ "How's your morning been?"

"I woke up this morning, so I can't complain," he replied, his silvery mustache ruffling above his warm smile. "Ready for today's lesson?"

"Um," Claire waggled her jaw in confusion. "We aren't going to wait until lunch break like we normally do?"

"Do you want to?" he questioned. Claire shook her head and eagerly made her way around the counter. "Hey, kid," he said in reference to David. No one called him David (except Claire on occasion). The moment he began working at the shop he'd been christened "kid".

Dave poked his head out from behind the truck once again, albeit, a bit reluctantly, in acknowledgement.

"Take over the register; we'll work on your truck, there." Dave nodded in agreement and immediately stood and headed for the counter.

"Now," John began, "we'll be learning about the spark plug today. It's function is to ignite compressed fuels with a spark."

Claire grinned. "I'm shocked," she commented. "I never would have guessed." John chuckled a bit at her remark and went on about their function and why they were vital. After a few minutes of learning about spark plugs, Claire was fully engrossed in her work and was glad that they hadn't waited until lunch time for the lesson because she would have been completely burned out by then.

The entire lesson lasted until lunch time (peanut butter and jelly…for the third day in a row) and then it was back to working the register. _Yuck_, Claire though. She didn't completely hate it, but she found learning about cars more invigorating than pressing buttons on the machine and counting change while forcing herself to interact with the customer. Roughly 80 percent of the customers were men and at least half of that 80 percent flirted with her. If a guy got too ambitious, Antonio or John or one of the other guys would calmly tell him to back off, and that was usually the end of it.

Today, however, this technique didn't work.

It was right after lunch. A guy in a studded black leather jacket with a white tee-shirt underneath, faded blue jeans, black boots, and sporting shaggy, medium blonde hair that fell to his shoulders walked in to the shop. The guy looked to be around 25 years old and had a certain wily demeanor that put Claire on her guard. He was there to pick up the truck that she and John had been examining for the better part of the day.

The first thing that Claire wondered about was why the hell he was wearing a leather jacket in the eighty degree March heat of Phoenix, Arizona. As he walked up to the counter slowly, Claire could tell from the look in his eyes that he was more than ready to stir up some trouble. _Great_.

"I wasn't told there would be a sweet broad here to ring me up," he said suggestively as he leaned up against the counter and smirked at Claire. She had to fight herself in order to not give him one of her best 'you-disgust-me' expressions and settled for a weak, forced smile instead.

"Well, when there does happen to be a sweet broad to," she paused so that she wouldn't gag on the words as they came out, "ring you up, we'll make sure to let you know ahead of time. Your name please?" _You little shit._

The guy grinned. Claire had to admit that he was really handsome, but something about the way he carried himself—a certain smug vanity—really put her off.

"Oh, modest too?" He leaned over the counter and got close to Claire's ear, causing her to recoil a bit before she reminded herself that she needed to be stoic—she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that he made her uncomfortable. So she stood her ground, staring straight ahead instead of looking at him. "Did you know…Cherry, that the only thing hotter than a girl who knows she's hot, is a girl who doesn'tknow she's hot?"

Claire immediately stiffened. No one had called her that name since _him_ and she felt like no one else was even allowed to. It felt wrong—twisted—_perverted_ falling from this egotistical playboy's lips and all Claire really wanted to do was run to the bathroom and puke her guts out. Or deck him. But no matter how appealing the latter option seemed, she knew she couldn't do it… until he paid for the work John did on his car.

Then he could suck it.

"I would appreciate it if you called me Claire," the red-head said calmly, gesturing to her name tag. "Now, may I please have your name so that I can find your receipt?"

The guy leaned across the counter and into Claire's personal bubble.

"What if I like Cherry better, _Cherry_?"

Claire did not like to be ignored. She'd never liked it. So for him to ignore the fact that she'd asked for his name so that she could find his damn receipt and be rid of him didn't sit very well with her.

"Eh," Antonio called out as he slid out from under the car he was working on. "Is there a problem here?" The blond guy turned to face Antonio.

"Of course not. I'm just having a conversation with the pretty lady here," he replied. Antonio looked at Claire for confirmation.

"It's fine," she assured him. Antonio nodded and went back to working on the car, discreetly keeping an eye on the two of them as he did.

"Name's Derek Abel," he told Claire as he turned back to face her.

Claire nodded as she reached below the counter to look through the pile of receipts. After shuffling through them a bit, she finally found his.

"Got it," she said, waving it gently to emphasize the fact, with a small smile that she hoped he wouldn't take as encouragement. He grinned a toothy, wolfish grin that caused unease to settle itself into her stomach. Claire entered the amount into the cash register as quickly as she possibly could.

"$67.87." She said flatly, although she had tried to make it sound animated. Derek proceeded to pull out a wallet from his back pocket and slipped out the correct amount of money and extended it towards her. Claire reached out to take it and just before her fingers could close around it, he pulled it out of reach. She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips as she drew her hand back. Derek continued to grin maniacally and made as if to give her the money a second time, then jerking it out of reach once again. Now she was pissed.

"Will you just stop it?" she huffed. Derek frowned for the first time since he stepped through the door.

"What's with the attitude, _Cherry?_" he demanded nastily.

"It seems to me," said Antonio as he got out from under the car and stood up, "that we _do_ have a problem over here." Antonio came to stand behind Claire protectively and crossed his bulky arms as he stared Derek down.

"Alright, alright. No need to get your panties in a bunch, _Cherry_," Derek insisted. Claire clenched her teeth at the name and took the money that the rebellious young man laid down on the counter. Claire placed the bills in the register and counted out his change.

"Have a good day," she said coldly. Derek smirked.

"Yeah, you too—_Cherry_." And then he got into his stupid truck and was gone.

Claire's tense shoulders slumped and she sighed as she leaned up against the counter, cradling her head in her hands.

"I can't believe that this is happening to me," she groaned. Antonio patted her shoulder sympathetically as he walked back over to the car.

"Well, I don't think that he'll be coming back, anyway, so don't worry about it," Antonito tried to reassure her. "From what I could tell, he was just passing through, maybe staying a few days at the most."

Claire didn't feel reassured, though. She spent the rest of the day looking forward to an appointment with her bed.

This wasn't going to happen, however. Claire knew it from the moment Sonia came screeching into the auto shop's parking lot in her 1974 Toyota Corolla. Antonio rolled his eyes as she parked the car and slammed the door a little too hard. Sonia didn't usually drive that badly, so Claire knew Sonia must have had some exciting news to share. Antonio cursed under his breath about having to fix that piece of shit one more time. Claire grinned for the first time since the mop-head left.

"Come on. Give her a break, Tony. She's my best friend, and besides, she'sa _lawyer_." Antonio chuckled and shook his head as he said something in Spanish that she didn't understand. Claire could only speak a little bit of Spanish, and she'd taken four years of French at Shermer High. Lot of good that did.

Well, on second thought, she had been to France a few times and used her knowledge (what little bit Madame Wright had been able to teach her). Her brother lived in Paris, but she hadn't spoken to him in months. She wasn't going to France any time soon.

"Claire!" Sonia shouted excitedly as she ran up to the counter in her nice sand-colored slacks and button-up white blouse. "You'll never guess what band is playing at the Mosh tonight!"

Claire perked up. She loved going to the Mosh. It was an old abandoned building where a lot of local bands played most nights of the week. Claire and Sonia went there all of the time.

"_Tell_ me, Sone," Claire teased dramatically, "who's playing tonight?" Sonia's face took on a mock-frown.

"Don't take the condescending tone with me, young lady."

"I wasn't being condescending!"

"You _were!_"

"Ladies," John interjected. "No bickering."

"Sorry," Sonia didn't look the least bit apologetic. "I would say that this is the last time we'll bicker in front of you, but then I'd be lying."

John grinned and waved her off as he disappeared into the tool room.

"Anyway," Sonia turned back to Claire. "Tonight the very famous Scout Killers will be playing at the Mosh!"

Claire raised an eyebrow. "Famous, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Then how come I've never heard of them?"

"Because you live under a fu—er—_fuzzy_ rock." Sonia corrected herself at the last minute because John always reprimanded her for her potty mouth. Claire had one on her too, of course, but she wasn't as bad.

"Oh, thanks, Sone." _You sweetheart_.

"Welcome. So aren't you getting off work soon?" Claire looked at the clock on the wall. Almost five o'clock. Antonio was working until six and Dave had recently returned from school. He'd left at eight forty-five that morning and got back at around three thirty when his school let out. Claire often worked longer than the standard eight hours for the extra money it provided and, really, she just had nothing better to do.

"Yeah, I guess," she replied.

"You guess?"

John poked his head out from inside of the tool room. "She can leave," he informed Sonia as he walked over to the car he'd been working on for the past hour or so.

"Great. Let's grab some food and then head over to the Mosh," Sonia told Claire in a matter-of-fact manner and turned on her heel. No arguing with that.

"Did you want me to lock up the register?" Claire called to John.

"Neh, I'll get it later. I'm still working on a car," he replied as he settled himself on the floor underneath said car.

"Alright, see you tomorrow."

Claire got into Sonia's car and buckled her seatbelt before digging into her bag for her wallet. It was a really nice red leather wallet that her father had gotten her a few years ago. A Christmas gift. One of the few testaments to her once lavish lifestyle. Claire thought often about how it didn't go with her messenger bag at all and how it would drive her mother up the wall if she ever saw it. It was the internal joke that kept on giving.

She'd thought about pawning it off more than once, but could never bring herself to do it. Besides, what would she keep her money in? Her bra? No way. Ever. She didn't want to draw attention to her chest-area. No, _thank _you.

Claire opened up her wallet and counted the bills and then the change that she had. Two dollars and fifty-one cents. She pursed her lips.

"Is there an admission fee tonight?" she asked, hoping for an answer in the negative.

"Yeah. Two dollars per person. The band is out of state—and semi-famous, so they charge." Most of the local bands played for free and even paid for electricity in the building for the publicity. And since a lot of people went to the Mosh, it was some damn good almost-free publicity.

Claire paused. Damn. "How much is a cup of coffee?"

"What?" Sonia asked in disbelief.

"Coffee."

"Oh, nuh-uh, Claire. You are eating a meal. On me."

"Sone, no. I already mooch off of you enough. I can pay for my own coffee."

"Okay. And I'll pay for your sandwich."

"You're not going win the argument this time."

"Don't test me."

"I won't eat it."

"Alright. Here are your choices. You can eat it willingly—with chewing—or you can be sedated and fed through a tube in your stomach. You choose. And trust me, the second one will hurt like a bitch. And don't think I wouldn't hurt you. I totally would."

Claire sighed. She would never admit that it hurt her ego a bit to have to accept money for a meal because she couldn't pay for it herself. She'd experienced this a lot since she left home and still felt like shit every time it happened. But she knew better than to argue any more with Sonia after she threatened bodily harm.

Bet's Diner was a popular place to eat amongst the locals. The food was really good and the service was really good. Bet had kicked the bucket a really long time before, but her family was still running the place and their welcoming, warm attitudes kept people coming over the decades. Claire didn't exactly frequent the place since she was, you know, broke most of the time, but Sonia liked to go about once a week.

So, Claire sat and ate with Sonia, but refused to speak to her. She knew that she was pouting, but, damn it, she wanted her way. And Sonia just sat there smiling smugly. _Bitch_. Claire had kept her two dollars and fifty-one cents for the Mosh. Because Sonia had ordered her to.

They were both nearly finished when Claire looked up and there, in the parking lot, getting out of his same 1978 Ford pickup truck, was Derek Abel.

_Shit_.

Claire's eyes widened and she slithered underneath the table as quickly as she could, up against the wall where she was sure no one could see her, her bag settled on her knees. Sonia laughed.

"What's your fucking deal, Claire?"

"I don't want to deal with that asshole that just pulled up. So stop talking to me!"

"Alright, alright. Jeez," Sonia relented, but Claire could hear the smile in her voice.

"And wipe that grin off of your face," the redhead demanded. Sonia responded with a swift kick to Claire's ribs.

"Ow! _Bitch_," she hissed in pain. Sonia, however, pretended that Claire hadn't said anything and continued to polish off her dinner.

Derek walked in cockily and headed for the bar where one of the younger waitresses was working and struck up a conversation with her, flirting unabashedly, not even pretending to be interested in ordering, you know, _food_, considering the fact that they were in a _diner_. Claire rolled her eyes and silently gagged a little.

As this went on, Sonia discreetly scraped what was left of Claire's dinner onto her own plate and carefully stacked them—as if she were there by herself.

Derek went on and on about things that no one on the entire freaking planet cared about but him. How he was the lead "vocalist" of _his _band, et cetera, et cetera. He mentioned something to the waitress about how one of his buds named John (_For the love of—is everyone named _fucking_ John? _she thought.) would be meeting him soon for dinner before "the show." So _he_ was going to be playing at the Mosh? With his sure to be dickhead friend? _Marvelous_.

"Hey, Regina," Sonia called to their waitress, an older woman (in her forties?) who always wore a friendly smile.

"Yeah, hon?" she replied as she approached their table.

"Can I get the check, please?"

"Sure, sugar. Hey, where's your friend?"

"Bathroom," she lied quickly, hoping to get off of the topic.

"Oh, alright," she replied skeptically. "I'll be back in a sec."

It only took a few moments. Soon Regina was back and left the receipt with Sonia. As she pulled her wallet out of her purse, Claire tugged on her pant leg.

"How am I going to get past him?" she breathed. But Sonia said nothing as she left money on the table and got up. She obviously had a mission in mind.

_Shit. What the hell is she going to do?_

She walked straight up to Derek, that's what she did.

"So," she struck up a conversation with him, getting right to the point. "I couldn't help overhearing, but you're going to a show tonight?"

Claire could see the cocky smirk he surely had on his face in her mind. She took a chance to peak out from under that table at them. The waitress he'd been flirting with looked confused.

"Actually," Derek responded smoothly, "I'm _playing_ tonight." He said this as if Sonia should drop to her knees and worship at his feet. What_ever_. "At the Mosh with my band," he went on. "You should come see the show."

"Oh?" Sonia asked as she pulled him over to the booth next to the one Claire was hiding under. She pushed him into one side with his back facing her red-headed friend and slipped into the other side. Claire knew Sonia well enough to recognize that she was currently in full-flirtation mode. "Well are you any _good?_" she asked, obviously asking about how well his band played, but in a way that his ridiculous, disgusting, playboy mind would twist it around to mean something else. She was good at that. She was playing him like a fiddle. Claire found herself enjoying it so much that it took a moment for her to realize she was probably supposed to be escaping out to the car now.

Claire made her move. She slowly crawled toward the edge of the table and peaked out to make sure that Derek wasn't looking her way.

He wasn't. But the waitress he'd been flirting with was. Claire didn't know whether she was trying to be malicious, or if she was just that stupid.

The confused expression on her face indicated the latter. Poor girl. But it was completely obvious that she was sill dazed because she was _considering _the guy. If Claire were in the state of mind to consider anyone, maybe _she_ would have considered him too.

You know, because she was into douche bag guys.

"We're _fucking _amazing," Derek replied, his voice dripping with sex.

On second thought, maybe she wouldn't have considered him either way. He was just totally disgusting. The waitress must have been a fucking idiot.

Anyhoo—as soon as she slipped out from under with table, the waitress caught sight of her. Claire waved her arms about as if she were trying to land a plane in an attempt to stop the girl from revealing her presence, but the waitress realized too late.

"Oh, my, what are you doing under there?" she questioned, sporting an expression of extreme confusion before clapping her hand over her mouth. She couldn't have known why Claire was avoiding Derek, but she realized that she'd made a mistake.

Jiminy. _Fucking. _Cricket.

And Derek turned around at this.

Fantastic.

Sonia sighed, frustrated, and rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she muttered curses under her breath.

"Well, well, well," Derek said as he got out of the booth, straightened up to his full six-foot height to tower over her. "What do we have here? A cherry hiding under the table? From me?"

Claire frowned. She _really _wanted to smack him now.

"She was looking for an earring she dropped," Sonia said as she took Claire by the bicep and began to drag her out of the restaurant. "But it appears that she found it, so we'll see you around."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold it," Derek said as he took hold of Sonia's arm, which the dark-haired young woman did _not _like. Understatement of the year.

"I'm sorry, hold _what?_" she snapped. Derek's self-confident smirk turned upside down in a heartbeat.

"She's not missing an earring—she's not wearing any earrings at all," he pointed out. Smooth.

"Yeah, well she actually dropped both of them. Clumsy. We've got to go. We have a thing. Bye," Sonia said so quickly that by the time he processed it, they were already out the door and getting into her car.

It really hadn't been as bad as Claire had been anticipating. Thank you, Sonia.

As they cruised along, Claire looked over at her housemate and asked, "Are we still going to the Mosh to watch _him_ play?"

"No," Sonia replied nonchalantly. "We're going to mosh and have a fucking blast. I'm not going to let that asshole ruin our plans. If we see him and he steps out of line, I'll kick him in the balls and he'll just be a soprano after that—actually, make that _countertenor_. He's a man right?"

"Debatable," Claire replied as she looked out the window, considering whether or not Derek could be considered a man. When that train of thought became dull, she sighed heavily as she turned to look at Sonia. The small woman raised her eyebrows in her special motherly condescending way.

"I just don't want to run into him again," she explained.

Sonia looked at her with her motherly chastising expression this time. She often adopted a motherly expression when she dealt with Claire.

"You can't live life avoiding your problems, _chiquita_."

Gee, thanks. That helps. That totally made her feel better about her life in general at that point in time, you know, considering the fact that the whole point of her even being in Phoenix was to avoid her problems. But she didn't voice any of this. Then she would have to explain herself. No way in hell she wanted to do that. She'd been doing just fine keeping it a secret from Sonia—from everyone. Sure Sonia knew that she was from Shermer, Illinois and the she left to get away from something, but she never pressed Claire from details (which was, in all honesty, truly shocking) and the redhead had no intention of offering information at present.

"I know," she finally replied, "but he just creeps me out."

"He's also gorgeous. Pompous, yes, but gorgeous."

Claire stared at Sonia incredulously. _What?_

"He's a first-rate, creeping, jack-wad, Sone!"

Sonia rolled her eyes. "Yes," she replied, "but I was simply acknowledging the fact that he is _also_ as delicious-looking as a blueberry muffin."

Claire pretended to wretch. "I'll never look at a blueberry muffin the same way again, thanks to you."

Sonia grinned. "Yeah, me neither."

Claire huffed as she slumped back against her seat. "Could you really not see how completely gross he is?" she whined.

The young Mexican woman slanted another of her chastising looks at Claire. "Yes, Claire. I could see that he is a giant douche, but level with me—are you really that put off that someone flirted with you or is there another reason behind it?"

Claire clenched he haw. Sonia was digging. She knew that much, and she refused to surrender _any_ information. She just couldn't tell anyone what had happened back in Shermer, not even Sonia. So she made her response vague.

"Sone," she said quietly, "you know that there's a reason." Apparently Claire's tone kept Sonia from pressing any further. It was usually at this point that Sonia backed off. She didn't disappoint.

When they pulled up to the Mosh, that parking lot was still relatively empty. Most people didn't arrive until after nine p.m.

"Come on," Sonia instructed her redheaded friend as she opened her car door. Claire rolled her eyes and followed Sonia to the back of the car. Sonia was getting her change of clothes. One couldn't very well mosh in law firm-worthy heels and slacks. Nope. Against the code. Well, there wasn't really a code, but one just did not do that.

So the two shuffled inside of the building—well, Sonia clomped around in those shoes, but Claire shuffled around in her Docs. As she waited for Sonia to change in the stall, she tried to refrain from examining herself in the mirror. That was vain, she mused. But she couldn't help tousling her hair a bit. Old habits.

When Sonia finally came out, they went back to the car to drop off her work clothes. They then proceeded to re-enter the building and hide out in a dimly lit corner at a table with chairs that stuck to the ground. Claire refrained from thinking about how the chairs could have gotten sticky and what the sticky substance could possibly be. She'd gone through that thought process before and it was not pretty.

The owner, Rob, came over to them after about ten minutes and asked if they were going to stay for the show. Affirmative. Were they aware that there was an admission fee today since the band was kind of, sort of famous? Yep. Did they plan on paying now or later?

Sonia rolled her eyes. "Jeez, Rob, take the damn money," she replied, exasperated as she dug in her pocket and threw the money on the table. Claire dug out her own two dollars and handed it over to Rob who was shaking with laughter and continued laughing, even as he walked away.

By now it was about seven in the evening and they had two hours to kill. Claire leaned back in her chair and propped her feet up on the edge of the table. It took all of two seconds to realize something. Claire threw he head back and laughed.

Sonia rolled her eyes at her and regarded her cherry-haired friend with an expression that conveyed that she believed Claire was an utter whack-job.

"Standish, what the hell?"

Claire stifled her giggles, but couldn't manage to wipe the grin off of her face.

"I was just thinking," she began, trying her best to not fall into giggles again, "that two years ago—one year ago even—I would _never_ have done this."

Sonia appeared confused. "What?"

Claire motioned to her feet sprawled out on the table top. Sonia rolled her eyes as she reached over to knock Claire's feet off of the table teasingly.

"How could you even _dare_?"

Claire laughed as she imitated how she used to sit primly in her chair, back ramrod straight, legs pressed neatly together.

"This is how I used to have to sit at the dinner table," she explained to Sonia, who merely rolled her eyes and mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like "yuppie."

The two continued laughing as Claire rearranged her feet up on the table again. The two spent a fair amount of time talking about the type of friends Claire used to have in Shermer, making fun of the things they used to talk about and the things they used to care about. They were all trivial things. Back then, Claire couldn't imagine worrying about all of the things she worried about at present.

It was nearing eight thirty and by the time the attendant was finished setting up that band's instruments and amps, et cetera. Sonia and Claire made their way to the edge of the stage and leaned against it.

"So," Claire began, "What is this band like?"

"Well," Sonia replied with a smirk on her face, "they're just about midway between hard rock and heavy metal. The lead singer's your creepy guy. He apparently doesn't _do_ heavy metal, so the rest of the band tones it down a little bit, but they still rock pretty hard."

Claire laughed. "You know, my mom calls rock the Devil's music."

"Really? You never told me that!" Sonia grinned widely.

"Well, I don't really like her—she's a bitch."

"Ah," Sonia said in realization, as if something suddenly dawned on her. "That's where you get it from."

Claire glared at her. "What?"

"You know, bitchiness," she teased.

Claire was not amused, though. Sonia had touched a nerve that was still raw despite all of the time it had had to toughen up. It was still raw because of unresolved issues, she knew, but she was not yet in the state of mind to even want to fix them.

"It was just a joke, Claire," Sonia assured her when Claire's face fell and she didn't answer. "I'm sure you're a bitch in your own special way." This, however, did make Claire laugh.

"Gee, thanks, Sone."

"Welcome."

It wasn't long before people began to pile in—there were more than usual. There were a lot of familiar faces, but there were even more unfamiliar faces. This band must've been popular. _Really_ popular. But Claire hadn't heard of them before that day. Maybe the news just spread around that they were a really good band. Either way, there was a crap-load of people in the smallish space.

It was a little after nine-thirty when a man in tight jeans, a white tee-shirt, and a pair of sunglasses stepped out onstage and grinned as he walked up to the microphone.

"Hello, Phoenix Arizona!" he shouted. A great, rumbling, thunderous applause rose up. Claire had never experienced such a thing before. It was enthralling.

"Are you _ready_?" he shouted into the microphone. The crowd roared again in excitement and Claire was fairly sure that her ears were bleeding. But she didn't care. She turned to Sonia and they grinned at each other in anticipation. The concerts at the Mosh had never been like this before, so to have this many enthusiastic people in the room at the same time was amazing. Even if Derek was going to be there. Prick.

"Are you ready to rock so hard that your brains explode, your hearts spontaneously combust, and your arteries detonate?" the announcer asked.

"Wow," Sonia deadpanned as the crowd went insane with approval. "Do you think he knows that all three of those words mean the same thing? Explode? Combust? Detonate?" she laughed.

Claire elbowed her. "He's just pumping up the crowd."

"Yeah, yeah. At least he's easy to look at."

"Oh, so now you're hitting on the announcer? You're such a tease," Claire proclaimed as she rolled her eyes.

Sonia grinned like a devil. "Don't fight it," she replied.

"Now get your hands up in the air and welcome the Scout Killers!"

The crowd literally did explode. The entire band made their way one stage. There were five members total. Two guitarists, a bassist, a drummer, and a signer, of course. Derek. With his shaggy, dirty-blond hair, smiling that cocky smile of his. Whatever. But most of the other humans of the female persuasion were obviously not thinking the same thing as

Claire—including Sonia.

Claire rolled her eyes at her rather short _compañera_ and listened to what the schmuck on the stage had to say.

"Phoenix, I'll tell you that it is totally fucking excellent to be here!" he shouted. Claire rolled her eyes. The crowd went insane. The drummer started pounding out a beat as Derek went on.

"Tell me, Phoenix, are you guys just as pumped?" Again, Claire was fairly sure that she felt her ears bleeding from all of the shrieking and yelling.

"Are. You. Ready. To _Rock_?" Derek yelled, putting heavy emphasis on the last word by dragging it out. But this time, as the crowd once again yelled their approval, Claire's world went silent.

Because she noticed

Something.

And suddenly every single part of Claire was focused on that something.

There, sitting up on stage. On a raised platform. Behind the drums. Shaggy dark hair. Going everywhere. Strong, square jaw. Grungy clothes. Black leather gloved hands. Not Saved.

She would recognize him anywhere.

She ran.

Claire pushed through the crowd. Many of the people yelled at her and glared as she passed, bumping into them. But she couldn't stop. She couldn't. When she reached the front doors, she burst through them and stumbled to the car. She placed her hands on the hood and tried to take a moment to breathe. But she could still see his face. How _dare_ he show up here? Anger flared up in her gut and she brutally slammed her hands down on the car, then kicked the wheel and let a guttural yell erupt from her throat.

How _dare_ John Bender show up where she was? She was so angry she could march right back into the Mosh, up on the stage and deck him.

Now there was a thought. A nice and appealing thought.

But on the other hand, part of her wanted to knock him to the ground and kiss the sense right out of him.

Choices, choices.

The door banged open again.

"Claire, what the hell?" Sonia demanded, her face contorted with a mixture of confusion and anger.

Claire sighed and leaned back against the driver's side of the car, massaging her temples, unsuccessfully rubbing the tension away. She avoided looking at Sonia by staring at the ground.

"I'm sorry," was all she said in reply.

"Why did you run out? I mean, I know that you find Derek detestable—"

"It's not him," Claire interjected.

"Well, if it's not him, then who?" Sonia sounded close to fed up with Claire. When the cherry-haired young woman finally looked up at her companion of one year, she realized that now was the time that she should at least confess part of the reason why she left Shermer.

And besides, what Sonia lacked in physical presence, she more than made up for in psychological presence. So her hard look and piercing stare were encouraging enough to get Claire talking.

"Sonia?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how I have my reasons for being here? Instead of in Illinois?"

Sonia's eyebrows came together at the center of her forehead. "Yeah."

"Well, you see, my main reason is on that stage."

A/N: I promise that the lack of John Bender in this chapter is made up for in the next chapter and the one after that too. Just saying. ;)


	2. First Ray

Disclaimer: same as last time—I do not claim to own The Breakfast Club, nor do I make any sort of monetary profit from this. It is purely for my entertainment as well as (hopefully) the entertainment of others.

Author's note: FYI, I got tired of editing this—I've been through it many times, so if there are still mistakes…oh well. :) Enjoy!

**Update, 12/22/12: I edited this to have a different ending because I want to take this story in a different direction than I initially planned. Chapter Three coming soon. :)**

Chapter Two:

First Ray

"Allison told me that he was in New York City! I mean, _what_ the hell?" Claire whined, kicking the wheel of Sonia's car.

"Aright, Strawberry Shortcake, calm down—it's not the end of the world… And if you don't stop abusing my car I'm going critically injure you."

Claire looked up at her dark-haired friend and glared.

"I can press charges for battery and assault, you know," Sonia added with a sharp hand motion, her pointer finger directed at Claire, who rolled her eyes.

"That's only for people."

"Are you trying to say that the well-being of my car doesn't matter?"

"Actually—"

"Because you know that I could argue that aliens induced the headless horseman to kill you and win."

Claire just stood there with her jaw hanging open for a moment. "Why are we suddenly making this all about your car?" she finally asked.

"You're the one who kicked it—you tell me."

Claire rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Sonia sighed, her face becoming a bit more serious.

"So you're really telling me that you ran away from home because of a guy?" Sonia questioned.

Claire clenched her jaw. "There's more to it than you think, Sone," she replied.

"Really? Like what?"

Claire sighed as she ran her fingers through her hair. "It's just… a really long story."

Sonia rolled her eyes and gave Claire a pointed look.

"It's a long story that I don't want to talk about, okay?"

"That's what I thought you meant."

Claire grinned, rolling her eyes again.

"Claire Standish—do you remember when we talked about running away from your problems?"

"Sonia Sanchez Delgado—yes, I remember," Claire teased.

"Well," the small Mexican woman went on, "If you avoid them long enough, they'll come and find you. That Bender guy isn't here so that you can run away from him some more. You need to talk to him, face-to-face. _Tête-à-tête_."

Claire rolled her eyes. "You're Mexican."

"So?"

"So why are you using the expression _tête-à-tête_?"

"Why are you continuing to avoid your problems by knit-picking petty aspects of my life, like the fact that I'm Mexican and trying to speak French?"

Claire's jaw muscles visibly tightened. She wanted so much for things to be okay between John and herself, but she was afraid. Lord, was she afraid.

"Sonia, I don't know if I can go talk to him. Do you know what the last thing he said to me was?"

"Does it matter, Claire? That happened a year ago."

"Two."

"Okay, two. It was two years ago. Have you changed in the last two years, Claire?"

The cherry-haired girl lifted a shoulder, but eventually nodded her admission.

"So doesn't it follow that he has probably changed in the last two years?"

Claire shrugged and nodded. "I guess I see your point." She looked down at the ground. "I just don't know what I'd say to him.

Sonia smiled one of her rare smiles. One born out of pure happiness and not sarcasm or the fact the she was enjoying poking fun at Claire. It only lasted a moment before a smirk tugged at the edges of her lips.

"Well," she said, "you could think about it while we mosh, right?"

Claire smirked back. "Since when have we ever done any thinking while we were moshing?"

Sonia burst out laughing and Claire soon followed.

Claire agreed to go back inside and finish out the concert, but John was on Claire's mind every second of that time. Sonia was right; the band was pretty awesome, despite their douche bag lead singer. (He _was_ really good—but still _way_ creepy).

The concert was over at about one in the morning. The entire audience trickled out—probably all going to some bar to get smashed. John was still onstage along with most of his band mates, already starting to take his drum set apart with his back to the two young women hanging in the shadows of the back of the hall. Claire still didn't know what she was going to do. Really, what could she say? 'Hey, John. It's been a long time. I know that the last time you saw me, I was completely self-absorbed, but don't worry—I'm no longer a bitch.' Yeah. That would be awesome.

"I'll be waiting for you outside in the car, alright?" Sonia notified her. Claire was sure that she looked as nervous as she felt. Something was squirming inside of her stomach, making her feel like she was going to throw up. Sonia put a hand on the redhead's shoulder.

"Relax," she ordered. "Remember that you need to breathe. You will be fine."

Claire still did not appear to be too keen on the whole idea. "Don't you think that you could stay with me?"

"No."

"But why?"

Sonia raised an eyebrow at Claire as if to ask, 'Are you kidding me?'

"Alright. Fine," Claire pouted at Sonia, who responded by opening the front door and flashed her cherry-haired friend a grin.

Not one second after Sonia left, the door that lead backstage swung open and out swaggered Derek, the meat-head.

_Oh, shit on a Ritz cracker._

Claire's eyes flickered to the stage, hoping to see John, but he was nowhere to be seen, his drum set fully broken down and packed.

_Dammit._

Claire swiftly maneuvered herself close to a nearby door and tried her best to enter stealthily. She did _not _want to deal with this blonde douche bag. Claire felt the side of the wall and found a light switch. She flipped it. Oh, swell. She was in a janitor's closet. But she didn't have time to ponder her suckish situation for long.

The door opened behind her and there stood one of her least favorite people in the world—he wasn't number one yet, but he was sure working on it.

"Cherry," he said cheerfully. "What are you doing hiding in here?"

It really was disturbing; the fact that he thought that he was being charming.

Claire started to roll her eyes but realized that this wasn't a situation in which she should purposely provoke him. "I'm not hiding, I was looking for the bathroom."

Derek grinned. "What, you didn't see the door with the picture of a woman in a triangular dress?"

Claire swallowed thickly and tried to come up with a plausible answer.

"Um," she fumbled for words. "It was still kind of dark, and I'm just really tired, so I think I'll just be going. You know, I need my solid eight hours," she smiled, trying to be nonchalant and go around him, but he maneuvered himself so that he was standing in her way again. Claire's smile faltered.

"So, Cherry," he began, completely ignoring everything she'd just said, "I've been wondering—have you ever been with a realman?" Derek moved towards Claire in a prowling manor, obviously attempting to back her into the corner. Claire immediately found herself on the defensive. Memories came rushing back. She was sent hurdling two years into the past. She could still feel the passenger door stamping its outline into her right side as a bulky figure reached out and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Squeezing. Threatening. Claire's throat began to tighten.

She forced herself to remove herself from her feelings and focus on how to get out of the situation. _Alright, Claire_, she told herself, _you can figure this out. You've dealt with worse. _Though she couldn't remember everything from self-defense classes, she did remember that she wasn't supposed to let him trap her. So she tried to maneuver herself away from the corner of the room, but Derek wasn't allowing it. He had her right where he wanted her and he wasn't about to let her go.

"My name is _Claire_." There was only one person she ever wanted calling her Cherry. (And it was annoying even then.)

Derek grinned as he flipped his hair back. She knew that it was supposed to be seductive, but she was far from being seduced. Instead, Claire backed further away from him and felt her back skim over the wall. She knew that she could be in some real trouble now. He could kill her.

"_Cherry_," he provoked her, a malicious grin painted across his face.

On the inside, Claire was a trembling little girl and she was fairly sure that she didn't look all that different on the outside, however much she tried to square her shoulders and stand tall.

Derek laughed heartily at Claire's attempt to seem like more of a threat. "You don't scare me," he said in a low, silky voice as he began to lean in towards her lips. The redhead put a hand flat on his chest and pushed him back a bit, giving him a piercing glare.

"Stop. Back off," she ordered, her throat thick with the fear she hoped he couldn't sense. Derek merely raised an eyebrow as he leaned in again. This time Claire gave the cocky blond singer a strong shove and delivered her command with more confidence and force.

"Back. Off." She tried her best to remember all of the different self-defense moves she could use in this situation, but could only think of one…

"Whatever, Cherry," he said as he leaned his face towards hers for the final time. She acted subconsciously, her mind completely taking over. Her leg moved upward with break-neck speed towards the one place where she knew she could hurt him the most. Hopefully this would finally get her message through his thick scull. Her knee made contact with its target and immediately Derek was doubled over in pain.

"You fucking bitch!" He hissed as he clutched the area between his legs.

"Thank you, you pervert," Claire replied calmly. Derek growled and lunged at her, an action to which her hand responded by reeling back and swinging forward, the heel of her hand making hard contact with his nose, breaking the cartilage on contact.

"Ah!" Claire yelped in pain as Derek fell to his knees. _Fucking pointy nose._

As Derek nursed his broken nose, Claire made her getaway. She wrenched the door open and suddenly she felt like she could breathe again. Funny. She hadn't realized that she'd been having trouble with that. Claire threw herself through the doorway and stumbled into a table as she did.

She quickly regained her footing and looked around, making a split-second decision because she could hear Derek clamoring behind her. It was only after she started running away from the front door, turning down a hallway that lead to a dead end, that she realized that outside had been the better choice. But it was too late and she had to make herself scarce. So she grabbed the handle of the first door she came to, pulling it open just enough to slip in, and carefully shut it behind her. She leaned against the door with her ear pressed against the cool metal, listening carefully for Derek. Claire faintly heard the closet door bang open, followed by a long string of curses. She then heard the distinct sound of the front door opening and closing heavily, and only then did she let out the breath that she'd been holding.

So after all of this, it only made sense that hearing the sound of a man's voice from behind would cause her to nearly jump out of her skin.

"I do believe, Cherry, that this is the gentlemen's room." The voice was familiar, but unexpected. Claire whirled around, and realized—she was in the men's bathroom.

_Oh, for the love of—_

But as she caught sight of the person who'd spoken, the realization that he was actually there sunk in. Claire looked up at him, breathless and totally speechless.

But John Bender was never speechless, of course, and continued speaking where he left off.

"You, however, are a little cherry, so I think that this room may be the wrong fit for you. Try the one with the more feminine picture on the front," he went on, gesticulating the shape of a woman's body. Normally, Claire would have given him a disgusted look. But they were still not on good terms, despite the fact that John was seemingly in good humor.'

Claire tried to say something, anything, (not necessarily anything intelligent) but she couldn't force any words out. Her mouth just gaped open and shut like a fish. She looked like an idiot, no doubt, but John said nothing about it, settling for crossing his arms and leaning against one of the stalls behind him. Smirk in place.

After a moment of Claire's fish-out-of-water experience, John apparently decided to put her out of her misery.

"What are you doing here, Claire?"

"I happen to live here," she responded, slightly indignant.

"You _live _in the men's bathroom? Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your place sucks. I think you need to hire a maid."

Claire scrunched up her nose. "Ugh! Gross! You know what I meant."

"Do I?"

Claire's face took on her unique-to-Claire angry clenched-jaw-pursed-lipped quality.

"What about you? Why are you here?" _Stupid question_. John apparently thought so too by the look on his face. He raised his eyebrows. Claire bit her bottom lip nervously.

More silence.

Claire had no idea what to say to him. She'd hoped that she would figure that out once they were face to face. But she didn't. She had no freaking clue.

"What the fuck are you doing, Claire?"

"What do you mean?"

John flipped his hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head as he dug around in his pocket, giving her a 'don't play stupid' look. He finally pulled out a cigarette and a match from his pocket, using his teeth to light it. He looked back up at her expectantly as he took his first drag.

Claire pressed her lips together as she thought about how she could put it into words. "I'd rather not talk about it," she finally replied.

"Oh, gee, you'd rather not talk about it, huh?" he replied rather nastily.

"No, Bender, I _don't_ want to talk about it," she replied firmly, clenching her fists, trying to convey that she wasn't going to take any of his shit.

"And here I thought that all you ever do is talk. My mistake."

"Fuck you."

John made a faux-thoughtful face before he said, "Eh, I've had preppy bitches before, but I kicked the habit. So although I would _really_ like to take you up on that offer, thanks, but no thanks."

"Gross pig," Claire muttered as she rolled her eyes. She knew that was the reaction he'd be expecting, but her encounter with Derek was still fresh in her mind, so it didn't feel as 'hypothetical' as she knew John had meant it. Her discomfort with the comment must have been obvious because John's smirking face slowly turned to a frown.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with _me_? What's the matter with _you_? You're the one who just up and left Shermer!" she shouted defensively, trying to change the subject. It was the first thing that came to mind, so she just blurted it out. That was never a good move, she knew, but it was too late to take it back.

Anger painted itself across John's face. "You _know _why, you _fucking _bitch!"

Claire clenched her teeth at being called a 'fucking bitch' for the second time within ten minutes.

"So that's what people like to call me these days I guess."

John had to have seen the sudden change in her demeanor. But he was still angry, so he was running with it.

"Well, if the shoe fits."

Claire didn't even have time to give John a nasty glare before the door swung open again, and there stood a completely worn out and defeated Derek Abel. But the moment he laid his eyes on Claire, his expression brightened. Claire turned to face him, since her back had been to the door, and took a few steps backward to stand parallel to John.

"There you are," he said smoothly, standing up straighter. John, Claire noticed, was immediately tense. Derek turned to John with a look of gratitude as he stepped forward, grabbing Claire by the bicep and started to tug her towards the door.

"Eh, Bender, thanks for finding her for me. I've been looking everywhere. Man, you have no idea—this little bitch needs some serious discipline." And then something seemed to click in John's head. He turned his head to look at Claire, and seeing the fury in his eyes, she knew that he understood.

And was pissed.

"You should probably let me go," Claire warned.

But the blond simply laughed. "Aw, come on, Cherry. Don't be like that. Just cooperate and I promise, scout's honor," he added seriously, then reverted back to his jackass demeanor, "that this will be enjoyable for the both of us."

"No," Claire said as she frantically attempted to get him to let go of her arm.

"Hey, get your fucking hands off of her!" John said menacingly as he roughly pushed Derek away from Claire. The blond seemed astonished that John would ever dare to do such a thing. Bender responded by throwing him a 'you think I give a shit?' look.

"I suggest that you mind your own damn business," Derek spat, as if John were some popper to his princedom.

John glowered. "Who are you to tell me what is and is _not_ my business?"

Derek looked the shaggy-haired drummer up and down, sizing him up threateningly. "You'd better watch it, Bender."

Claire knew that she shouldn't have interjected at that point in time, but the words were already out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"Derek, you're _such _an ass. Why don't you just leave?"

"I'm gonna fucking finish you," he seethed, taking a step towards her.

"Finish this, asshole." John reeled his arm back and swung.

And then Derek was clutching yet another part of his body in pain. It would have been really funny if the situation had been less serious.

Claire turned to look at John in wonder. He stood there, staring back with an unreadable expression on his face.

"John," she said his name quietly. It was so completely spectacular to say his name, not just to in reference to him, but _to_ him—as in, to his face. With him there. In the flesh. He knew by the way she caressed his name with her voice that she was thanking him. John nodded his head in acknowledgement. But, of course, the moment was shattered by the dirty blond who was still in the room.

"What, you _know_ this bitch?" Derek asked in an accusatory manner.

John turned to look at Derek as if he just realized that he existed. "What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?" he asked quietly, and that was when he was at his most dangerous—most malicious. Claire knew this all too well.

Derek chuckled. "Oh, come on, Bender. I think that you and I both know that this tease wanted—"

Unimpressed. "Bull-_fucking_-shit, Abel. And don't you _ever_ make the mistake of comparing yourself to me, okay? Because I may be just a simple drummer," he said mockingly, "but you are an arrogant, smug, self-righteous, pretty-boy rapist." John spat in disgust. "Get out of here, you piece of shit."

"You can't tell me—"

John placed his cigarette between his lips and grabbed the dirty-blond man by his white tee-shirt. And got right. In. His. Face.

"I don't think that you heard me, Abel," John said with a dangerous calm, his cigarette bobbing up and down between his lips, "and since I'm such a swell guy, I'll say it again so that you can hear it: Get the _fuck_ out of here. And if you aren't out those doors within the next ten seconds, I will hand you your ass."

For a moment, Derek looked awe-struck and his mouth hung wide open.

"Gee, Abel, you look a little confused. Well, I can't get any clearer than that. Sorry," he finished unapologetically. Derek glared at John, as if promising retribution, but he slowly and silently made his way over to the door and left they way he came in.

There was silence for only about a moment. John was not pleased.

"What the fuck were you doing with _Abel_, Claire?" John questioned demandingly. And now it was back to fighting.

"Me? What about _you?_"

"Can you not see that I was _forced_ to play in a band with that schmuck?"

"_Forced_, right. Just like you were _forced _to leave Shermer," Claire said, à la I-now-have-the-upper-hand. But she didn't. She never really did with him.

"Oh you want to play games, Cherry? Well, why aren't _you_ in Shermer? I'm sure that you have a better reason than me." Claire knew that he was getting angry again, but for the time being his anger lurked just beneath the surface.

Claire clenched her jaw. "You don't _know _my reasons," she ground out.

"It's a simple question, Cherry. Why. Aren't. You. In. Shermer?"

A long pause. "I told you—I live here in Phoenix, now." Claire said with a touch of defeat in her voice.

"No, what you _told _me was that you live in this marvelous abode," he smarted, gesturing at the slightly grungy bathroom they were in.

Claire forced herself to swallow her anger. He was baiting her, trying to lead her away from the conversation that he didn't want to have. Well she wasn't about to let him do that.

"Please, John. Why did you leave?" It was an ambiguous question, but he knew what she was talking about. She was asking why he dropped out of school during their senior year and disappeared from Shermer. His anger made itself obvious now.

"Why the fuck do you get to ask me that? If there's anyone who has the right to ask me that, it is definitely not _you_."

"Oh, and _why_ not? Don't you think I deserved to know why you were leaving? But no! You just up and left without saying _anything_!"

"_Why_ would I say anything to you?" he spat.

"Do you have any idea how it felt to wake up one day and you were—just gone?"

"_Have you seen John today?" Claire asked Brian in biology. It was February of their senior year, almost a year since Saturday detention. None of her "friends" took biology so she knew that she wouldn't have to worry about any messy conversations where they would make fun of Brian and then she'd be forced to choose between her popularity and a true friend. Not a situation that she really wanted to deal with._

_Brian shrugged helplessly. "I—I don't know. I mean—well, we don't have, you know, many classes together, but he wasn't in the ones that we do—_do_ have." He still had the nervous habit of losing all articulate thought when trying to communicate verbally._

_Claire nodded disappointedly at his response._

"_Sorry," he apologized._

"_No, it's fine. It's not your fault, Brian," Claire responded, making it clear that he shouldn't beat himself up._

_And as it turned out, no one had seen John for days._

_Claire was down to her last resort. There was only one way that she would know for sure where John went._

_She walked up the pathway to a house that looked like it had once been really nice, but years of neglect had taken their toll. It wasn't a large house, but big enough for a family of three. It had a front porch and a garage, the door of which was dented in a few areas and looked like it was about to fall apart at any given moment. John had never taken her to his house for obvious reasons, number one, his dad was an alcoholic and a jackass to boot. But now that she was seeing the house, she was pretty sure that his father wasn't the only reason. Not that she would have looked down on him for it or anything, but she knew that he was touchy in the area of his family and anything remotely related._

_As she put her weight on the porch steps, they shrieked so loudly that Claire was shocked when no one was already waiting for her by the time she got to the front door. She knocked three times and waited. It took about five minutes, but eventually a tall, unshaven, restless-looking man who was definitely related to John came to the door. He had a beer in his hand and took a swig before speaking._

"_What?" he snapped impatiently._

"_Is John here?"_

"_Who wants to know?"_

_Claire pursed her lips. "A friend." John's dad raised an eyebrow, obviously expecting her to elaborate. "My name is Claire."_

"_Claire, huh? Why do you want to know about Johnny?"_

_She furrowed her brow. "He's my _friend_." Understatement. And anyway, didn't that explain it?_

"_If you're such good _friends_, why didn't he tell _you_ where he went, Pippi Longstocking?"_

Primate_, Claire thought as she rolled her eyes. "John Bender doesn't exactly tell me everything about his life."_

_Bender Senior downed the rest of the beer in his can, then crushed it, throwing it carelessly into the yard. "He's gone."_

"_What?" Claire blurted, her eyes almost popping out of her head._

"_Is there a problem with your eardrums?"_

_Claire narrowed her eyes. "_Where_ did he go?"_

"_Do I look like I give a rat's ass?"_

_The redhead was so angry that she could slap him._

"_You _should_."_

"Why_ should I care about that lazy son on a bitch? I'm glad he's gone. Do you know how much money I've wasted on his sorry ass for the last eighteen years?"_

_Claire knew that she shouldn't have expected anything else based on the way John spoke about his dad, but right about then, she wanted to punch his lights out. She crossed her arms and shook her head._

"_You don't even know what you're saying."_

"_What the fu—" John's dad was indignant._

"_No! You _really_ don't understand! John—he's a great guy! You have no idea what you're losing!" Claire turned on her heel and walked down the steps to leave, but she couldn't help herself._

"_You know—maybe if you weren't such a blind asshole you could see that John isn't a pain or an inconvenience—he's a human being and he deserves to be treated as one." Claire paused, shaking her head at the irony. "You know what? Now I'm beginning to feel happy that he's gone too. He wasn't getting the treatment he deserved from either of us. I hope you rot in hell."_

_Apparently the man was too stunned by her words to do or say anything as Claire walked away from him, never once looking back._

"You went to my house?"

Claire looked a bit sheepish. "Yes."

"You _talked_ to my old man?"

"Yes."

"Why the fuck did you even bother?" John scoffed.

Claire was good at keeping her feelings bottled—pretending that nothing bothered her and making herself amiable to the ideas of others for the sake of not creating strife.

None of this was true about her in that moment.

"Because you _matter to me!_" Claire yelled in his face at the top of her lungs.

John's eyes widened infinitesimally at this revelation. It was barely noticeable—but to Claire it was obvious. After a moment, John rolled his eyes and smiled his sarcastic smile as he flipped his hair back. He was trying to act cool, she realized. Claire could tell what he was thinking. That she was just making things up as she went along.

"John," Claire grabbed him by the crook of his arm. He looked down at her hand, then back up as he shook off her touch, giving her a hard look. But she had his attention. Albeit, he acted as if he would rather be wasting his time on something else, like spray painting the F-bomb on a blackboard. Claire took a deep breath and tried to choose her words carefully.

"I really do care about you, okay? I went to your house to find out if you were okay—I cussed your dad out because he was being an ass about it. You don't think that I was afraid to go there? I didn't know what the hell to expect! I didn't know what your father would be like other than what you'd told me, and what you'd told me wasn't exactly comforting. I mean, _you_ can be pretty intimidating yourself sometimes, but your dad—I had no idea."

John smirked. "You cussed my dad out?"

Claire's face scrunched up in frustration. "That's not the _point_, alright?" she exclaimed.

"Then tell me, Queenie of the Richies in your _infinite wisdom_, what _is_ the point?"

Claire narrowed her eyes, slanting him an annoyed look. "My _point _isthat I faced your father."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. He's pretty ugly and that part's scary enough on its own, but his breath? Now _that_ is terrifying."

Now Claire was hurt. "Why do you have to do that? It wasn't some joke."

John shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He seemed unable to make a decision about something. An indecisive John Bender? Interesting.

"John."

He stared for a moment at one specific point on the ground before looking back up at her, appearing deeply moved, but the sarcasm behind his mask was overwhelming.

"Well this is all very deeply _touching_ and _affecting_," he said, brushing her off. Claire's brow furrowed and she could feel the hurt swelling up in her stomach.

_Fine, _she thought. _Be that way._

"Well," Claire shrugged her shoulders in uncertainty, "Thanks, I guess, for chasing Derek off."

John looked at her indifferently. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, and it bothered her to no end.

"I guess I'll see you around." Claire looked at John expectantly.

"I guess you will," he replied, finishing off his cigarette before snubbing it out in a stall and letting it fall to the ground.

Claire nodded curtly and left, the door thudding firmly behind her. Her vision began to swim with tears as she walked quickly out of the building to Sonia's car. She opened the door and slipped in. Sonia looked at Claire with concerned eyes, but remained silent, waiting for the redhead to speak first.

"Let's just go home," Claire finally whispered.

Sonia nodded as she put her car into gear. "Okay."


End file.
